So in addition to the site's own Facebook page, where horny, TOTALLYREAL ladies named Alexia randomly hook-up with eager commenters, you now can personalize your Deadspin allegiance based on each writer.

Yes, there are personalized fan pages for many of our writers. This will allow you to see all the fine work they produce. (It will also let you know which writer edited a freelance contributor's post and reveal aliases, if you're into finding out that sort of super-nerdy info.) These pages will enable you to "like" individual writers in the same way I "like" Mila Kunis's fine body of acting work: with fawning adulation and envy (of that "Home Alone" kid).

I am currently the least popular Gawker media employee. This is sad. Fitting, but sad. No pressure to "like" me or anything but if I can get more people to "like" me than the current company-wide leader, the lovely Gizmodo geekstress, Rosa Golijan, I'll send you over a pic of a Jezebel reader working a stripper pole. Just email me to let you know that you "like" me and I'll send the photo to you if I take the lead. If I don't, no pole shot.

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And programming notes:

Tomorrow: Short day, but we'll have Drew's annual Thanksgiving Jamboroo at 10:30 am. plus open threads for football games and the submissions to our "Black Friday Horror Story" contest.

Now get a head-start on your pre-Thanksgiving rituals of catching up with old high school friends and getting shitfaced like you're 22 and full of vim and vigor. Like this person did, who submitted this for the "High School Reunion Horror Story" contest. It fits in well with what many of you will be doing tonight:

I come from a town in central Massachusetts where high school reunions are often informally spent in one of the many bars uptown instead of at some country club. So although this year would be my 5th reunion, our class president (who was voted in as a gag) has resigned to the idea that like moths to light, the class of 2005 will run into each other one way or another on the night before Thanksgiving.

Now, rewind back to this time last year. Having graduated college the spring before and spent the summer celebrating many of my younger friend's 21st birthdays, the night before Thanksgiving was ripe for a quality night. To begin, we started the night at a pseudo "western" bar by playing pool and getting $5 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

After a few pitchers a piece, word began to spread that a lifelong friend would be in town for the night. This was good news as many of us had not seen him since he moved away and spent his weekends on a military base. Now this kid was a legendary party animal back in his day so it got us very excited.

Unfortunately, the night went on and as we hopped from bar to bar, there was no sign of him. We had heard he was in town and tearing it up, but he seemed to evade our grasps. Finally, as closing time approached we made one last dash to ole reliable, where we knew we'd be served well past close.

En route to said bar, we finally find our white whale, He's standing up outside of a car door with his pants around his legs and some slut's legs around his waist. As we approach our friend, we begin cheering and chanting his name. He replies with and "Ohh Shit!!" and makes his way over to us.

Standing at half-mast (whiskey by his own admission) he approached us and went for the bro-hug. After dodging his wishbone, he tells us all about his plans for the morning: kegs and eggs and the same western themed bar that we started the night. Of course we obliged, and he went back to stuffing his turkey.

Sure enough, he was the first one at the bar the next morning and by the time the high school football game rolled around, he was muckled. It was good to see that things hadn't changed.